


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝐷𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝐸𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝑀𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑠

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [33]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Magical Realism, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Surrealism, Teenage Bright, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝐷𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝐸𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝑀𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑠 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#the-graveless-doll-of-eric-mutisThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Series: Domino 🁡 [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝐷𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝐸𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝑀𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑠

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685375) by Karen Russell. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis](https://electricliterature.com/the-graveless-doll-of-eric-mutis-by-karen-russell/) \- Karen Russell  
>  **— Cover Song:**[Toss the Feathers](https://youtu.be/a41IPN7sKNk) \- The Coors  
>  **— Assets:**[Stock Photo](https://www.pexels.com/photo/green-field-near-houses-2165688/)

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/the-graveless-doll-of-eric-mutis.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
The other kids grew seemingly overnight that summer, their hormones flooding turning them into unrecognizable personas spilling into too-large frames. Malcolm had enough problems fitting in before, but now the kids are bigger, more monstrous. Like they’ve been lit up with Monsanto’s finest fertilizer come carcinogens, they glow with an aura that screams _danger_.

“Shitly, you’re back,” Thompson jeers, rapping his empty tray against the table. “Thought you woulda tapped out.”

Lunch tastes of regret, each spoonful of soup going down threatening to come back up as other kids pass by him, most not talking, but just close enough that the hairs on his arms tingle, warn of impending interaction. His world shrinks to the broth jittering on his spoon, the effort to get it to his mouth without spilling.

“Mr. Whitly — get to class!” the cafeteria monitor commands, towering over his table. Soup falls down his sweater, mars his pressed khaki pants.

That’s his fa-father, n-not him. All the blood from his face drains into his throat, choking him into staying put. The world gains a raven edge, each quick breath welcoming the murder. Eyes darting around the cafeteria, he searches for an exit, some safe place he can hide. The urge to disappear drops onto the table, tipping his whole tray into his lap. His clothes soak up the broth like oyster crackers, leaving him soggy and floppy without any pearls inside. A soppy mess, he slides to the only safety he can find, underneath the table.

“You’re not a kid anymore, Whitly — you can’t pull this,” the monitor warns.

He _is_ a kid. Gil’s kid. He always will be. In Gil’s safety, no one can do this, but back at school, it’s a disaster, it’s too much. Finding the plastic spoon still in his hand, he realizes that might be the only way to break his tension and quell some of his panic.

It’s double the effort to dig at his skin with the handle of a plastic spoon, a burr from a defect in the molding process scratching at and finally breaking the surface on his forearm. It’s hidden underneath his sweater and shirt, only the head of the spoon sticking out as he rips away trying to engage the trigger. The release catches, and tears start flowing down his face, his feverish actions halting. Sobbing into his knees, his breathing slows, drifting into a space that’s muted and dreamy. He feels himself wheeled away.

Waking in the infirmary, his hand brushes his arm and feels the healed skin, only a slightly darker area of scarring left behind. Restored to whole, he sneaks out to his dorm, away from anyone who can question why he had a meltdown in the middle of the cafeteria, away from anyone who can equate his behavior with what a son of The Surgeon might do. Self-destruct from the trauma? Likely. Hurt anyone else? Would never happen.

A lifetime later, Malcolm is sobbing into a pillow in the living room of his loft when Gil walks in. He can hear his coat come off, hanging on the hook at the same time as he toes off his shoes. His socks pad across the hardwood, crossing to the couch and rubbing Malcolm’s back. Malcolm's face doesn’t move from its hiding place in a pillow.

On the back of Malcolm's hand is a burn, shriveling at the edges as he cries until there is only a scab left. His tears dry up, leaving his chest with occasional shudders. Gil is a comforting presence as he composes himself, and when Malcolm quiets, Gil rests his chin on Malcolm’s upper arm. "You try cooking again?" Gil asks.

"Tea," Malcolm says.

"I'll make you some fresh?"

"Please."

"You want to move to bed before you fall asleep?"

Malcolm nods. Gil helps him to his feet and the two take a slow walk to the bedroom. Malcolm’s limbs lose their energy as they go, his body spent from the energy required to repair itself. Thoughts of tea remain on his mind as he drifts off to sleep.

A few weeks pass when it seems an easy task to open himself to tears, only to crash to the tile when his blood plummets from his head. He finds himself strewn on the bathroom floor as he sobs, drowning in air, then hears the front door open. Between the closed door and the shower running, he is hidden, but there is no concealing the shaky moans that must be leaking through, repeating, “he’s in the shower, Malcolm Bright is there,” as there’s a knock seconds later. “Kid, I’m coming in,” Gil says, and he’s inside the room before Malcolm can stop him. “Shit, I’ve been calling you for the past hour — I should’ve just came.”

Malcolm slumps further in his huddle between the vanity and the shower, towel tight around his waist, sobbing into his hands. A pocketknife sits next to him on the floor, and even his hand quickly attempting to cover it can’t conceal the blood on the blade.

"Where?" Gil asks, crouching by his feet and looking over him.

Occupied with crying, Malcolm doesn’t say anything. A smart animal is doing this, a surgical animal trained in how to efficiently wield a blade. An animal in tears while it repairs itself so it can attack again.

“Where is it, kid?” Gil repeats.

Malcolm pushes at the towel near his hip, revealing a burst of red in the fibers. The wound isn’t bleeding anymore, the pressure staunching the flow, but it’s too soon for it to have healed either — his tears still flow.

Gil stands and wets a washcloth with warm water, then crouches at Malcolm's side and sets it on his thigh. Malcolm takes it and wipes at the blood smudged on his skin, clearing it away. Gil slides in next to him to hold him.

"It's mostly healed," Malcolm says, crying into Gil's shoulder.

"Let out what you need to get out," Gil says. "Can talk later."

Malcolm's tears abate when the last bit of red disappears, leaving him sleepy against Gil's shoulder.

"Let's get you to bed."

The night comes without terrors — it always does when his body needs to heal. His restorative abilities take over, quieting any demons. It only lasts until morning, when he realizes Gil hasn’t left his loft.

 _Of course not, you pulled bullshit from when you were a kid_ , his brain reminds him.

 _If you can heal yourself, might as well put it to use_ , his father reminds him. He’d rather replace his father’s voice with Sunshine’s, but he doesn’t have any say in the voices department.

Coffee isn’t an adequate salve for talking about the re-emergence of self-harming behavior. Gil sits at the counter, giving Malcolm a few stools between them as space to talk, but Malcolm focuses on fidgeting across them to sit next to Gil rather than sharing what is on his mind. Gil's hand rests on Malcolm's neck, and he stills. "It's the only way I can cry," Malcolm says.

"You can express your emotions in other — "

"Another woman died because I couldn't come up with a profile fast enough. Excuse me if I wanted to cry,” Malcolm scoffs, frustrated with himself.

"It's unhealthy,” Gil says like he could follow him around every moment and see that Malcolm would never be harmed. He would harm himself looking after Malcolm if it came to it.

"I cry, it heals back up. No damage."

"Kid — "

"I have pain I can't get out." Malcolm is torn between scurrying away from Gil and huddling closer, wanting to lash out and collapse at the same time.

"I'd like us to go for a walk,” Gil says, resting his hand on the base of Malcolm’s neck.

Malcolm looks at him, unpleased with the outcome and wanting Gil to see it in his eyes. “You're going to take me to Gabrielle’s,” he levels.

"Is this the first time?"

"No,” Malcolm says, yet Gil’s look waves him on for more explanation. “A couple weeks ago.”

“Are you using it to help you sleep?” Gil asks, practically seeing right through Malcolm, leaving him cowering beside him.

“Sometimes.” Malcolm’s hands are quick to move to justify the statement. It’s how he escapes insomnia chasing him into his dreams, taunting him with a poke of a blade and shouting, “Wake up! Dr. Whitly’s here!” Injury is a small price to pay when it heals over. “I’m indestructible, Gil.”

“You’re behaving like that, but it’s not true.” Gil stands, giving him room to back away a little so they can properly stare each other down. “I’m terrified of the day you learn that’s wrong. What makes you think whatever drug your father gave you won’t run out one of these days? Finally drains from your system. And what if you don’t know it? What then?”

Or if it had an antidote. Those fears had whirled a thousand times through Malcolm’s nightmares. “Might be in trouble then,” he begrudgingly admits.

“You’re having trouble now,” Gil says, his tone sounding like an ultimatum that there’s only one place they’re going if they leave the loft.

Malcolm looks at his arms, nary a blemish after all the years that have passed, even the burn barely visible. To any passerby, they never would know the destruction in his childhood. But so much disappeared — his ability to cry without injury, his ability to sleep without healing, and his ability to exist without perpetuating the traumas that had been committed against him.

To him, he relives opening old wounds from childhood, hiding underneath a lunch table, in a custodial closet, underneath his bed. Poking at his stuffing, wondering if he’s as scary on the inside as the outside. Though they close quickly, it’s only a matter of time before he opens them again, getting a look at what Bright is made of and watching as they dissipate. A whole bunch of straw, ready to break.

— ◌◯◌ —

“No, man — you gotta go away from the building if you want to have this type of conversation,” Evan says, leading JT and Dani away from the office building. The editorial assistant appears to know his way about the area, steering them with ease. “Coffee shop in the building is full of corporate staff. Tons of ears.”

“You know your stuff,” Dani comments.

“Of course I do.” Evan smiles back with an enthusiasm that mirrors Malcolm’s. He brings them to a juice bar and orders up a Green Menace. Dani feels a bit awkward bringing their coffees into another establishment, but they desperately need the caffeine. They also need Evan to share whatever he can. Evan’s drink in hand, they all pile into a booth in the back.

“You said yesterday you get to read all of the manuscripts that land on Veronica’s desk,” JT says.

“Yes,” Evan confirms. “You need to know something about them? I’ll give you what I can.” His voice is full of an eagerness to please, energetic in stark contrast to their tiredness.

“What do you know about A. S. Harper?”

“Correspondence a couple times a month. One of the firm’s biggest authors.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“Over email.”

Dani makes a mental note that they need to get a warrant for the electronic records. “Do you talk to a lot of authors?”

“Yeah — a bunch every day. I have a quota of how many manuscripts I put across Veronica’s desk. It’s a bit easier if they come from someone we’ve worked with before.”

“What’s it like working with Veronica?”

“I told Detective Tarmel yesterday — it’s a foot in the door. She’s demanding, but she knows what she’s doing. You don’t get to her position without a strong point of view.” Evan looks at his watch.

“How long do we have you?” JT asks.

“I’ve got to go back in ten. We can talk more after work if you need — you have my number.”

“Have any threats come through?” Dani asks.

“To me? No. I have no idea about Veronica — she hasn’t mentioned anything. You might ask her admin, they have access to her email.”

“Has anyone acted in a threatening manner toward her?”

“No. She isn’t well-liked by the staff, though. Management loves her — she keeps the money rolling in — but general folks on the floor think she’s too tough.”

Dani considers whether they would have the same opinion if Veronica were a man, nearly finding herself in a position as if she could possibly claim to be able to defend the honor of a dead woman she had never met. Maybe she had been as difficult to work with as some of their phone calls suggested. Maybe there were multiple truths somewhere in the in betweens. Tiptoeing over whether she should bring up A. S. Harper’s status, JT picks up the conversation.

“Do you ever talk to any of the authors on the phone? In person?” JT asks.

“Usually not. Few exceptions.”

“A. S. Harper is dead. Has been for a couple years,” JT shares the information bluntly without offering any sugarcoating or warning.

Surprise crosses Evan’s face. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Hence why we have questions.”

Evan takes in a hefty sip of his green concoction, mulling over JT’s words. “We work with ghostwriters sometimes.”

“For someone as prominent as A. S. Harper?”

“No. And not an impersonation like this either. Usually just a brand or pseudonym. Sometimes authors work on collaborations as well.”

“Do you have a list?”

“Yes. Sharing it is a violation of company policy, though — it will get me fired. So I can’t — I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing he’s denied them, and he leans toward them, overly apologetic.

“It’s okay,” Dani says. “We can request it. You’ve been very helpful.”

Evan looks at his watch again.

“Go,” JT says. “Thank you. We’ll give you a call if anything else comes up.”

“Thanks, detectives. I hope you find out what happened. Veronica’s loss left a gaping void. No one’s as good at this as her.” Evan disappears out the door, leaving Dani and JT to head back to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
